signal fire
by tiltingaxis
Summary: A quiet knock on her door stops her in her tracks. She frowns. It's a Saturday night, and everyone she knows are either out partying or staying back to help with the production, and she vaguely wonders if maybe the person has just got the wrong door.


**A/N: A sort of Father's Day one-shot, before Finn and Rachel decided that they'd rather take over.**

* * *

_In the confusion_  
_ And the aftermath_  
_ You are my signal fire_

* * *

She groans when she hears the thunder cracking against the sky, pulling up one boot as she searches for the other, ignoring the incessant ringing of her phone. Finally finding her other boot under the bed, she crows in satisfaction, pulling it on as she reaches for the phone on her mattress.

"I'm coming!" she exclaims breathlessly, sitting with her legs splayed forward on the floor as she takes a breath.

"Where the hell are you?" Santana snaps on the other line. She winces, knowing that she'll be in trouble if she tells the truth.

"I'm on my way."

"You're still in your dorm room, aren't you?"

"I-"

"You were knitting again, weren't you?"

"Well-"

"For God's sake Berry! Are you _trying_ to be an old maid on purpose?"

She rolls her eyes as Santana mutters a few choice words in Spanish, looking into the mirror to assess her appearance. There's another clap of thunder and she winces. It looks like there's a terrible storm outside, and if she's honest with herself, the last thing she wants to do is to go out for drinks with Santana and Kurt. Much as she misses both of them (yes, even Santana.), clearly the weather is trying to tell her to stay in.

"Look, I'm leaving right now, okay?" she says, her tone placating as she turns away from the mirror to head for her door, ignoring Santana's comment about Rachel knitting sweaters for her stuffed animals. What's so wrong about that anyway? She happens to think it's cute when Jimbob the cow has a warm blue little sweater on to match the hue of his fur.

And honestly, after hours of being critiqued and corrected in what is possibly the hardest acting class of her life, coupled with the incessant needs of Eliza, the director for the off Broadway production she's currently interning with, knitting is her best form of relaxation. She'd much rather spend a few hours focusing all her attention into calmly producing something useful, than living it up at some dive bar Santana has surely picked out for the evening. Besides, there's still that on-going piece she hasn't finished, and she was planning to complete the sleeve by tonight.

"Well hurry up. I'm sick of listening to lady Hummel bitch about his love life. You need to get here and wallow with him so _I_ can gets my party on."

"That's sweet Santana," she says, rolling her eyes when Santana hangs up on her.

Grabbing her bag off the bed, she takes another look in the mirror before making a move towards the door.

A quiet knock on her door stops her in her tracks. She frowns. It's a Saturday night, and everyone she knows are either out partying or staying back to help with the production, and she vaguely wonders if maybe the person has just got the wrong door. There's another quiet knock against it just as she turns the knob, pulling the door open, and finding herself face to face with the manifestation of the storm outside. Well, face to chest. She stares dumbly at the shivering body in front of her, sopping wet from head to toe, and when he speaks, her eyes snap up immediately.

"Hi."

The low timbre of his voice sends a shiver that starts in her brain and goes straight through to her toes. It comes out a little shaky, and she's unsure if it's because of his shivering, or the fact that he's just as stunned as she is. His dark brown hair sticks to his forehead from all that water, merging in the middle in an almost comical manner, and she watches dumbly as a rivulet falls from the tip of his hair down his nose, sliding against his cheek to stop at the top of his lips. She makes a quick assessment without realizing it. He's soaking wet, his hoodie sticking to his shirt that sticks to his slightly thinner body. He has a duffel bag over one shoulder and it's wet too. She looks down to find a puddle on the floor where he's currently standing.

He sneezes, and her head snaps back up. There's a nervous, almost pained look that crosses his features as he looks at her.

"Hi," she says quietly.

Xxx

She stares straight into the cup, watching as her spoon makes a whirlpool in the tea she's stirring. It's Chamomile, which she finds soothing, and it's hot, which is precisely what he needs after all that time spent out in the rain. Her thoughts keep scattering and regrouping, and aside from moving almost mechanically around her room, she doesn't know what to do. His clothes are laid out on every flat surface she could find. She had taken them out of his bag while he's in the toilet, silently airing them out and wondering what it means when he has about a week's worth of clothes in there. She turned her phone off about a minute after it began blowing up, no doubt Santana is cursing up a storm that offends both her and her nose at the moment, but she doesn't really care right now.

Her eyes are oddly fixated on the teabag, floating helplessly in the small whirlpool, and she can't help but commiserate with it.

There's a few quick succession of raps against her door again, and he pushes through, standing in her doorway in a white t-shirt and a pair of boxes, which are both quite damp, but those were the only things they found in his bag that weren't soaked all the way through. Her spare towel hangs over his neck, and she almost smiles at the thought of how awkward it must have been for him to use it. He smiles at her.

"I made you some tea," she tells him, motioning for him to come in. He does, pushing the door closed behind him as he enters, and stands awkwardly in front of her door. Her dorm room is small, perfectly cosy enough to fit a small girl like her. She's pictured it a million times, what it would be like to have him in here, what he would look like sitting on her bed, standing by the small window that overlooks the pathway to the next block. As it is, he stands out like a sore thumb. His big, hulking body is such a contrast from everything else in her room, every small furniture, especially that small beanbag chair she has tucked in the corner of her room, where all her stuffed animals are.

"Awesome," he says with a grin, taking one giant step to reach her, their fingers grazing as he takes the mug she offers. She's standing next to her desk, fingers drumming nervously against her electric kettle as he looms over her.

"You can erm- you can sit on the bed."

"Thanks," he murmurs, his gaze indiscernible as they stay on her. It's quiet for a while. She watches him blow against the mug to cool his tea.

'You look incredible," he tells her, eyeing the outfit she still has on. She blushes, wondering why such a small compliment is making her so flustered. She guesses maybe they're just a little out of practice. It's not like they haven't spoken. They have. Just, not as much as they used to. She sends him a lot of pictures though, anything really, that made her think of him. Some random part of NYADA she found interesting, a picture of Central Park, or the New York skyline. He already knows the inside of her room long before he stepped foot in it. And he sends some back too, like Fort Benning (she didn't look at that one for too long), and the Pee Wee football team he was helping Coach Bieste with during the summer, car parts that she never remembers. He sent her a picture of a gold sticker once, tacked onto what was obviously a young girl's drawing of a soldier. She kept it as the wallpaper for her phone for almost a month.

"I was on my way out," she tells him quietly. His face registers guilt as he looks away almost uncomfortably.

"I- I'm sorry," he stammers. "I probably shouldn't even be here right now. I mean, if you need to leave I can-"

"Don't be ridiculous Finn. You're not going anywhere. I was just meeting Santana and Kurt."

"How is Santana?"

"She's great. I think maybe New York made her a little nicer."

"Really?" he asks doubtfully.

"Just a little," she jokes, grinning when he chuckles. He takes a sip of his tea, and she's struggling not to jump up and down on the balls of her feet from her anxiousness. "Finn," she continues quietly. "Does Kurt know you're here?"

He shakes his head, looking up at her through the mug. She takes a seat on the edge of her desk, drumming her fingers against her thigh. It's bad habit that he gave her, and she can't seem to shake it off.

"Does anyone know you're here?"

"Well, mom does. I mean, I told her, and she was the one who sent me to the bus station, but I don't know. Maybe Burt does too by now. I just-"

"What are you doing here?" she cuts in, her patience wearing thin. He looks up at her carefully.

"In New York? Or here with you?"

He's stalling for time. But she can't give it to him.

"Both. Why are you here Finn?"

She wonders if her tone comes off as accusing. She hopes that it doesn't. It's not like she's mad at him. At least, she doesn't think she is, anymore. She used to be. She used to get so mad at him, because it was just easier that way. It was just easier to blame him then to realize that there were some truth to the things he had said. But she's not mad anymore.

He's looking at her, almost guarded, his grip on the mug in his hands so tight, she can see how white his knuckles are from where she is. He shakes his head with a chuckle, and there's a self-deprecating smile that touches his lips.

"Turns out," he starts, his tone airy though she could see the struggle in his eyes. "Trying to change my dad's status from dishonorable discharge to honorable discharge is like, impossible."

"Finn-"

"I mean, I think I must have written like, hundreds of letters, to so many different people. And they're nice, you know? For the most part. Like, they'd hear me out and stuff, but the answer was always the same, you know? Unless I had proof that he didn't do what he did, there was nothing anybody could do," he continues, shrugging. She stares at him, leaning back against the table. It's always been a sensitive question.

"What did he do?"

"That's another thing," he answers wryly. "Mom said it was the drugs, and that was in the records too."

"But you don't think so?" she guesses.

"I think the drugs were made him do what he did. They said it was disorderly conduct, but it wasn't specified. I mean, you'd think the record would have elaborated on this," he says, annoyed. "Like, how was I supposed to defend him, or collect evidence or whatever, if it wasn't clear? I even went and visited some of the guys that were in the same platoon with him. Some of 'em aren't even here, they're just all over the world. But there was a few, and they're all awesome, and they keep telling me that my dad was a real great guy, you know? In fact, that was like, the only thing they would tell me. I just- I didn't know what I was going to do, you know?"

"And that's why you're here?" she cuts in, slightly impatient. He looks up at her with a sigh.

"Can you like, sit down or something? I mean, you looming over me is kind of freaking me out right now."

"I would hardly call this looming," she scoffs. "When I have barely a foot over you."

He shrugs, grinning when she deigns to sit on the bed. On the far end. Away from him.

"It got frustrating. I mean, I guess I was just so fixated on trying to clear his name. And I- I don't know. I even thought I could join the Marines, like they could fix it somehow. Like miraculously some dude somewhere is gonna think, 'hey look how serious this kid is about this. The Marines should totally change their minds and take back that dishonorable discharge'. Stupid, I know."

"I don't think it's stupid," she says softly, frowning at his disparaging tone. "I just- I've never thought it was stupid, you know. I just wished that if you had done it, that it was at least for _you_. That was all I ever wanted for you."

She's playing with the flower patterns on her bedspread, refusing to look up at him while she speaks, and she holds her breath when the bed creaks, and he moves closer.

"I know," he says quietly. They're both silent, and the tension is stifling her. She should have taken off these stupid boots. They're only adding to her current discomfort. "And you also wanted me to be here for you."

"Is that so bad?" she asks defensively, looking up and glaring at him. "You wanted that too, didn't you?"

"I did," he says in a placating tone. He looks at her earnestly. "I mean, Rachel, that was _all_ I wanted. To be here with you, just- just to _be_ with you. But it just felt so- I just- it felt like I was just sitting there, you know? Like, I was just going to be following you around for the rest of my life, and like I was abandoning him. I mean, my whole life I grew up with this idea of who my dad was. I thought he was this amazing man, and- and I wanted to _be_ that too. I didn't know _how_, but that was all I ever wanted. He was like this- this big, untouchable hero, like- like Superman or something, you know? And then mom told me the truth, and everything was shot to hell, and it just felt like- like going to New York, being an actor or whatever? It just felt like I was ditching him for something better. I-"

He stops talking, sighing loudly as he runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

"I suck at explaining this to you. I just- I don't know how to say it Rachel. But I couldn't just leave him like that, you know? He was my _dad_. I didn't know the guy, but my _whole_ life, I wanted to be _just_ like him, this- this hero I made up in my mind. And he was, you know? He was a hero. He went to war, and- and he really did save a bunch of people, and his friends told me was a good soldier- and it just, what kind of son would I be if I'd just let that slide?"

"Finn, this- it's not your responsibility-"

"Then whose is it?" he questions, staring at he almost like he's daring her to come up with an answer. _His_, she wants to say. _Your father's_. But she can't. She just looks back, her gaze unwavering.

"Sorry," he murmur, looking away. She shrugs. He places the mug on the floor next to her bed, and shifts even closer.

"Three days ago, this dude came to the garage. He was all decked out in Marine gear, and somewhere in the back of my idiot head, I thought I did it. His name was Mitchell Bayman. And I thought he was some official or something, but he was just this retired Marine. And he got my letter, like someone gave it to him or something."

"Who was he?"

"He was my dad's sergeant. He said he was in charge of the platoon. And- and he said he knew my dad pretty well, and that my dad was a great guy, you know, the usual. But he told me something else too."

"What?" she whispers, when his face takes on an almost faraway look. His expression is solemn when he looks back at her, and she finds herself inching closer. She doesn't notice the space between them closing, barely notices how there are only a few inches between their bodies.

"He told me what happened. You know, with my dad?" Finn says. He shoots her a hesitant look. It lasts for less than a second before he shakes his head. "And he- he killed a person Rachel."

He lets out a slow, even breath after those words rush out of his mouth, and he won't look at her. All at once, every memory she's ever had of him talking about his father flits through her mind.

"_I'm gonna do it Rachel. I'm gonna fix this for him."_

She ignores the burn in the back of her eyes.

"In combat?" she asks, almost hopeful. But the look in his eyes is already telling her what she doesn't want to hear. He shakes his head imperceptibly.

"A civilian. A- a boy who was caught in the crossfire."

"Oh Finn," she whispers, her hand moving of its own accord to rest over his on the bed. She squeezes it, and he automatically turns his palm up, twining their fingers together while he shrugs.

"Mitch said that it wasn't his fault, my dad. He said that- that the village was just caught in combat, and- and those civilians were supposed to be protected, but that the kid came out of nowhere. Like, he freaked out and started running, and dad he- he was- he shot him. 'cause he got in the way. That little boy. Dad shot him, and he died almost immediately."

His hands are shaking, and so is his voice, and she inches even closer, wrapping her arms tightly around his.

"He just- I guess he just couldn't get over it, you know? It killed him. Mitch said dad never slept after that, or he'd wake up screaming. And they tried to help him the best they could, but he just shut down or something. He wouldn't talk about it to anyone, and- and after a while Mitch said that it was obvious that he was on something. And that was when the drugs started, 'cause he kept having nightmares. He wanted to leave, you know? He wanted to get away from there, but the Marines have their rules, and he couldn't just up and go- so he- he freaked out."

"What did he do?" she whispers, eyes wide as she stares up at him. He shrugs.

"He didn't tell me. And I just- I didn't ask him," he says, looking down at her with a peculiar look on his face. "I just- I couldn't, you know? It's like I don't really want to know what he did. That was-"

"You didn't have to," she finishes. He nods, finally looking down at her with a small smile on his face.

"Mitch said that it happens sometimes. I mean, some guys just couldn't live with it. And I- I get it, you know? I finally get why he screwed up. I always wondered about why. Even the whole time I was writing those letters and talking to his friends, it just never clicked. This- this man everyone keeps telling me about, it didn't make sense to me that he'd do that, just like, abandon me and mom like he did. But I- I get it now, you know?"

"Yeah."

"Mitch said that I shouldn't be too hard on him. But I'm not, really. I just- I guess I just wanted to know the guy. Like, dad's a real person to me now, you know? And even though I didn't get to do it, I didn't get to change his status, I feel like I _know_ who he is now. 'Cause mom, she never really talked about him a lot. And especially not the Marine part of his life, which I get now, because that part kind of screwed us over. But, you should have been there Rach. Listening to those guys talk about him, it's like I could finally put a real personality next to his face, you know?"

His body is turned towards her, and his excitement is contagious, as she finds herself smiling up at him, her arms loosening their grip.

"So you're happy? About what you found?"

"I guess I am. I mean, it's still a bummer that I couldn't change things. But I figured you know, he had to have known what he was doing right? I mean, maybe it was worth it for him. Maybe he'd rather be dishonorably discharged than spend another minute in Kuwait. And knowing what I know now, I mean how can you even blame him for that?"

"I'm glad," she says quietly, smiling up at him as she inches away. He frowns when she moves, and shoots her another look she can't seem to decipher. She watches as he takes a deep breath.

"Mitch asked me about I was going to do and stuff," he continues quietly, and she could swear that her heart seemed to have jumped right up to her throat. "And I told him I was thinking about joining the Marines, and he- he said something."

"What did he say?"

"He- he told me that it was a noble choice, and that he himself proudly served the country for almost forty years before he retired. But he- he asked me why I wanted to do it. Join the Marines I mean."

"What did you tell him?"

She won't look him in the eye. She _won't_. But he's taking her hand, and so she watches the way his fingers are weaving carelessly between hers. They just fit. They always have.

"I told him that I wanted to do something that would make my dad proud."

"What did he say?"

"He called me an idiot. But like, in a really nice way," he continues quickly when she looks offended.

"I don't see how calling someone an idiot is nice in any way."

"He told me that it was a nice gesture, but that nice gestures have a way of screwing you over." Finn chuckles. "He asked me what I wanted. Like, what I _really_ wanted to do."

She nods knowingly at his earnest look.

"Acting?" She always knew the acting bug would bite him sooner or later, he was just too naturally talented at it. He smiles at her, looking down at their intertwined fingers.

"I think about it sometimes, you know?" he says instead, a small smile gracing his face as he keeps looking down.

"What?"

"Our wedding day."

"You mean the day where you put me on a train and sent me away?"

"No," he answers, barely phased by her bitter words. "After Regionals. With you in your wedding dress. I mean, I think about that a lot. Remember that moment? That moment when I saw you, and- and it felt like if we could just stay in that moment forever, then that'll be okay?"

"Finn-"

"I thought about that. About you, in your wedding dress. When he asked me what I really wanted, I thought about you."

"What," she stammers, shrinking back as he inches closer. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not trying to be presumptuous," he says earnestly. "I meant it Rachel. I meant what I said. You- you deserve the world. I mean, you deserve _everything_, and if you- if I'm no longer part of that, then okay, you know? If you don't want me to be a part of that, part of everything that you want, I won't- I won't be a dick about it."

"Finn-"

"But I'm staying here. I'm staying _right_ here in New York, because- because I _want_ to be here. I want to find myself, _here_."

"Here?" She's leaning back against the wall by now, and he's looming over her. He's always looming over her. And her heart feels like it's about to burst right out of her chest. He nods, his head so close to hers, she can feels wisps of his hair against her forehead every time he leans forwards.

"I-" he laughs, a little breathlessly. "I have a plan."

"You have a plan?" she whispers. He nods his head vigorously.

"I've been looking up some applications. I mean, there are a bunch of places that I can go to like, NYU, or Staten Island, all these schools that are around here, and- and I talked to miss Pillsbury on the way over here. I called her 'cause I was kinda freaking out about it, and she told me that all these places have dramatic arts, you know? And there are all these places that I can apply to, and yeah, I kinda have to wait a few months but- but I can get a job in the mean time. Be a waiter or, maybe there's a workshop somewhere that needs like a mechanic or something. Whatever, the point is," he says, his demeanor so energetic, it's like his threatening to burst. "I can _do_ it Rachel. I know I can."

"I always thought so," she murmurs. "You can do anything."

"I can do anything because of you."

The smile he gives her is soft, adoring, just like it always used to be, and this moment is surreal. She can't believe that this is happening right now.

"I've been saving up for months," he confesses. "Not because I planned this or anything like that. Or maybe I did, but I just didn't really realize it until three days ago. I have some money from the garage, and- and our honeymoon money. I mean, half of that is yours-"

"It's yours."

"No, Rachel, it's ours, and you-"

"You're going to need it here. You need to find a place to stay, right?"

He looks at her, dumbfounded for a few seconds before his lips turn up.

"Right," he murmurs. He's even closer now, their faces are just inches away. But he doesn't move away, and neither does she.

"Do you want me here?" he asks, the low timbre of his voice causing shivers to run up and down her spine. He looks nervous, like he's afraid of what her answer might be. Of course she wants him here. She _always_ wants him.

"What if I say no?"

He shrugs, leaning in even closer, and she swears that he's trying to give her a heart attack.

"I'll be heartbroken, of course. But I'll- if you want me to stay away, I will."

"You're doing a really bad job at it."

"Old habits dies hard I guess. I'll learn."

"To stay away from me?"

"If that's what you want."

Finn. She _wants_ Finn. She always wants Finn. But there are too many things still unresolved, too many doubts running through her mind. Aren't there? His eyes are boring into hers, the heat of his body engulfing her in a slow burn.

"What do you want Rach?" he asks, voice low as his gaze lowers down to her parted lips. She lowers hers as well, and the breath he lets out sounds like a gunshot.

She closes the distance, pulling him forwards by the towel around his neck, pressing her lips urgently against his. He almost loses his balance, and she hears the loud thud of his palms against the wall as he tries to right himself. She almost giggles, but his tongue gets in her way, and when one hand finds its way beneath the fabric of her shirt, to run familiarly against her heated skin, she's too distracted to remember.

She'll make up her mind tomorrow.

* * *

_No, I don't wanna wait forever_  
_ No, I don't wanna wait forever_


End file.
